


Warrior

by iluvaqt



Series: True Heart [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Post-Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 08:52:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7795312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iluvaqt/pseuds/iluvaqt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wights plague the North. Bran tells Jon that the real fight is still beyond the Wall. Jaime and Brienne don't see eye to eye with the plan to defeat the Others. But they'll do what must be done, for duty and for love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warrior

“Stubborn, bull-headed, unyielding woman,” he cursed.

“Insufferable, pig-headed and arrogant fool,” she rallied back. 

He had swept her from the Lord Commander’s tower when it was obvious that their heated stares and narrowed pointed looks weren’t going to make either of them bend, and neither of them fancied an audience to their disagreements. They tended to escalate rather quickly when his wench had set her mind to something. Their tempers, both fiery lead to swift disrobing and wild fucking or a hard bout of swordplay, and then coupling while bruised and sweating in short order as well. One might argue their conflict resolution was hazardous to one’s health but he was of the mind that it suited them perfectly. He had no complaints, although his body is not as spry, resilient or hard as it once was. He's not so youthful, golden or virile anymore but his body hasn't failed him yet. Although when faced with his young heart's song, he knows that day will come. Her muscles flexing, her anger hot and her beautiful blue eyes flashing, a fierce storm, he hopes it will not be today.

“What utter stupidity must be bred from birth that men think women sit and peaceably darn socks, mend tunics and breeches while their men ride off to war and death,” she snarled. “I’m a fighter, Jaime, better with a sword than most, even wrong handed,” she finished bitterly. Her right wrist, although healed, never had the strength it once did. 

“Woman, no need to remind me of your prowess. I wear the bruises from our last fight. The Night’s Watch has failed. White Walkers and their Wights plague the lands we’re sworn to protect. We are placing fighters at every House from here to the Twins. If they press further South, we will have lost. Our Valyrian steel number but four. And our dragon glass runs low. I cannot stay and defend Winterfell at your side, the realm needs me further North aiding Jon Snow to defeat the Night King. If Bran is right, we kill him, and his army will fall. The dead outnumber the living, Brienne. This fight cannot go on or we will lose. You know this.” He took her hands where they fisted at her sides, her posture was rigid and her jaw was set, he could almost hear her grinding her teeth.

They made no vows before Old gods or the Seven but they’d sworn to each other and that’s all either of them wanted. He was hers and she was his, till the end of their days and the hereafter. 

“I cannot watch you go,” she said and her chin trembled even as she refused to let any tears fall. Her eyes were wet and she blinked rapidly. 

“Now you know how it feels, love,” he said softly. He rested his cheek against hers. Each time he had watched her leave in years past, torn to almost begging her to stay. Conflicted over whether he should abandon all other obligation and follow. Resigned to the knowledge that her shrinking shape in the distance was perhaps the last time he would ever look upon her. He understood her pain. It was curious, this sense of duty, to pledge oneself with honour. To truly believe in a just cause. To understand the danger but accept the fate of ultimate sacrifice regardless. 

At Riverrun he had believed himself to have made his final farewell. For she rode to her death. He thought Sansa’s quest to take back Winterfell from that bastard Bolton a fool’s attempt, with what army? Without the Blackfish, who would aid them? The Northern Houses had suffered greatly with the Young Wolf’s War, cut down by Lannisters, Boltons, Freys and the Ironborn. But against all odds they had prevailed. And she had survived. They both had. Brienne was right. He had never known a highborn girl like Sansa, a picture of a perfect lady, presented as delicate as porcelain but truly as strong as forged steel. He had also never known a woman could be fierce, skilled with a blade, dutiful but kind hearted as Brienne either, a Dornish princess aside. Both women surprised him and inspired things in him that he believed long forgotten in his person. Things like hope and honour.

Jaime buried his fingers in the coarse blonde locks at her nape and breathed in the familiar lavender scent of her soap that mingled with tanning oil of her furs and her natural heady scent.

Her resistance faded, like ice in the face of fire and she melted in his arms, her breathing slowing and deepening at his shoulder. “You are entirely too proud of your power, Ser,” she muttered, a twinge of annoyance still in her tone.

He smiled against her throat where he pressed open mouthed kisses along the firm muscles covered by the softest silken skin. She was both firm and supple, curved and woman in all the right places. Her breasts, tightly bound while she was dressed were more than ample and filled his palms, soft and heavy when bared to him in their bed. 

They fit together effortlessly, not two halves of one whole but two pieces designed to meet, cherish and strengthen the other. His love drew her out from behind her densely built walls, revealing her beauty for all to see. She walked with new confidence. Prideful not only in her prowess as a warrior, but also in the discovery of her womanhood and the power she held. Secure in the love and desire of a man devoted to her. And he, where could he to begin examine the edges she had softened, the darkness she had helped him shed, the light she brought into his soul, the healing she blessed him with each day they shared breath. Every day in her arms was a gift, every smile she bestowed upon his person restoring a small piece of his youthful heart that had been broken and trampled for so many long years before he understood what a true and unselfish love felt like.

Disillusioned by his brother knights, sworn to unworthy mad or drunken incompetent kings, betrayed and abused by ones he counted as family his only desire of them to be loved. He had stopped believing in anything. A year in a cage was a long time to reflect on the sum of his life. The only memory to cling to his perfect twin, so sure he was of her love and loyalty. That memory faltered when they took his hand and shattered when he learned he was the only one faithful in their union. 

Brienne gave him a reason to live, and later in the face of her love, he could not help but feel his faith over his worthiness as a man - perhaps even one still capable of some redemption. His affection, admiration for her had begun as a spark that quickly turned to a fanned flame when he was reunited with her. Now at her side, the passion in him for her, to fight for as long as he drew breath, for honour, for a future by her side, it burned hotter than the sun. It gave him vitality he had never experienced before and even in the face of insurmountable odds, he couldn't help but feel hope.

“I will join Jon and go North. Tarly will stay with you at Winterfell and Tormund will lead his people to defend the Gift. Tyrion and the Unsullied will hold Last Hearth and the Queen will finally bring her dragons. We will do this. We must.”

Brienne clung to him desperately, her fingers digging into the his red Lannister cloak and through his many woollen layers. He looked every part the knight he once was, while she looked every bit a spear wife if not for his armor she still wore under her bear pelt and animal fur boots. “You have one moon’s turn after you leave from Winterfell,” she said firmly, her eyes glistening as she fixed him with her searching gaze. “One and I am coming after you.”

Jaime growled, his brows furrowed and his left hand sliding under her layers to palm the small of her back. She jumped and shivered at his chilled touch but didn't brush him aside. “You would endanger yourself going out alone.”

“I'll ask Arya for Nymeria. The wolf can track you and King Jon and offer me some protection.”

Jaime sighed. “If we haven't succeeded in a month, it may be because we have died in the attempt.”

“I won't allow it,” she said with finality. “We live or die together.”

Jaime shivered at her words. Another had promised that before. He had lived and she had died. He pleaded silently that part of this oath she swore would not hold true. If anyone was to survive this Winter, it must be her. Brienne had to live. 

::: ::: :::

Their torches snuffed out with increasing frequency. The ice and snow too heavy and wild for the flame to endure. The mountains were rough and slick covered in volcanic rock. 

The assault on the Wall to gain entry to Castle Black and pass through to the South had been a diversion. The real threat had passed through from the mountains crossing a frozen river and on past the Gorge. It wasn't till word from Bear Island scouts and the Mountain clans had sent ravens to Castle Black that they knew White Walkers had moved beyond the Wall.

Bran had told them that the Night King was the only one who could raise Wights, just as he was the only one who could make Others. Sam sent news from the Citadel, records of accounts from the Battle of the Long Night said that dragon glass and Valyrian steel were the only way to kill White Walkers. Bran explained that this was because dragon glass through the heart of a man against the weirwood was how the Night King had been made by the tree folk. The Maester in training also confirmed the claim by Bran Stark that Jon was the son of Rhaegar and Lyanna, and legitimate heir to the Iron Throne. Not that it made a lick of care to Jon. He didn't want to rule Westeros, he only cared for the survival of the people and his family, his home.

Jaime didn't know how long it had been since he'd said farewell to Brienne at the godswood in Winterfell. One desperate kiss, pouring all of his desire, pleasure and pride in her into that act and he'd torn himself from her side. He never once looked back. He could not. To see her soul bearing blue eyes, so wide and full of longing and fearfulness would stay him. He wouldn't leave and it had to be done.

It could be weeks that had passed, maybe more. Their stock of dried meat was almost out. They had hunt for what they could and melted snow for drink but as they'd pressed on through the frigid North and the rough, ever stretching territory of the Frostfangs they knew game would be even harder to find. Days and nights were difficult to determine, light barely pierced through the blanket of white that stormed past the mouth of the cave they'd taken shelter in. Without Ghost, Jaime was sure they'd have been lost in the blizzard long ago.

Without warning, Ghost left his guard post at jagged rock face near the cave mouth and shot out into the white. Jon swept up his sword abandoning everything to follow. Jaime cursed and quickly did the same.

A few short sprints through sheets of falling snow and the blistering wind calmed. Before them in the low valley marched a steady procession of Wights, behind them on the rise in the distance a lone figure sat atop a ghastly looking stead, his iridescent blue eyes tracking to their position as the air grew chillier and yet utterly still.

The Wights turned almost as one. Jaime unsheathed Widow’s Wail and raised his golden hand that made an adequate torch hold. He was grateful that he'd thought to take a flaming log from the fire before abandoning the cave. 

Jon gave a battle cry and charged for the Night King, running along the crest of the valley to where the Night King waited, Ghost followed him. Jaime blinked and growled in frustration. He knew this was a fool’s mission from the first but he would go down fighting. He would give Rhaegar's son a fighting chance. This was a sworn duty he did with honour, something he'd failed to do in his past as Kingsguard. Brienne would forgive him this, she would understand. 

He lit and cut down Wights till it felt like his sword had fused in his hand. His shoulder ceased to burn, his whole body began to numb. He knew Jon was fighting just as furiously, desperate to edge closer to the Night King. Their enemy was using the Wights to keep them back while content to watch instead of retreat. 

From the corner of his eye Jaime saw something growing in his frosty grasp. Turning after he finished another wight, he saw the Night King throw the ice spear at Jon’s unguarded back. He dove forward and swung his sword hoping to cut it down before it could reach Jon. It shattered. 

Jon turned at his warning cry and saw him stumble. 

There was a spray of red that coloured the pristine blanket of snow at their feet and he managed a red smile before the sword slipped from his nerveless grasp. A shard of ice stuck out from his neck, just below his jaw and he struggled to speak. Blood filled his mouth. With effort he cast his gaze at the Night King who watched his staggering steps with a satisfied calculating smirk.

Jon picked up Widow’s Wail and threw it with brutal force and rage. It pierced the Night King through the heart and he exploded in a hail storm of ice shards before their eyes.

Jaime fell to his knees, blood spilling from his lips in a steady flow, he could feel the life draining out of him with each pulse of his heart. Thump, pulse, trickle. Each beat making him feel weaker, his eyes dropped feeling heavy. Strong arms caught his shoulders and he was sloppily tossed over a very warm, furry softness that moved. He heard Jon grunting and the whistle of steel and flicker and flash of flame nearby. 

He was dropped to cold stone and he noted the darkness above meant he was back in the cave. Ghost had carried him.

As he fought for awareness, a welcoming blackness deadened the throb and sting of his neck and shoulder, he succumbed to its embrace.

::: ::: :::

She could fight men to the death, her fear feeding her fury to push through any pain. She knew how to sail through a mighty storm, flashing grey clouds and rolling waves having no sway to deter her from her purpose but high in the air, air so thin she struggled to breathe, her feet resting on nothing and her face assaulted with pinpricks of ice, she was terrified and she wondered if the dragon knew it. Her grip was white knuckled and sweating. And as Rhaegal dipped and rose with each beat of his mighty wings, she fear plummeting to certain death. 

They knew something had changed when the Wights stopped attacking so fervently. They still came but it seemed less organised somehow. The moon’s turn had come and gone three days ago, she had been marking stone with each return of ever shortened daylight. With the return of each long night, the frigid cold and numberless attacks, her count grew less certain while her anxiety grew. Each day she was reminded of what she promised when she looked to her sword. Oathkeeper. Only Bran giving her updates through the eyes of Ghost had kept her back this long. Arya had rushed to her side as she defended Winterfell’s northern wall and she knew. It was time to bring him home, she would find him. He may have fallen in battle but she would not accept his fate until he was in her arms once again.

When the Queen had come riding her dragon, Tyrion being accepted by Viserion as a rider and Rhaegal the green dragon remaining riderless, the Queen was reluctant to use him in the fight. She felt him too vulnerable without the instruction of a rider and she would be too preoccupied avoiding ice spears and burning down the seemingly endless army of Wights to keep him protected. The sulking green dragon had perched on the east rampart of Winterfell. Roasting everything and anything that dared get closed to climbing the wall. 

After feeding the beast every day from the dwindling supply of sheep her father’s ships had brought from Tarth, she grew bold enough risk approaching it. She'd always been better with animals than people so she thought it worth an attempt. Having that little Queen standing by both curious and encouraging hadn't hurt either.

Rhaegal had snorted at her, nosed her bodily as she got close but didn't eat or roast her. The wide smile from the Dragon Queen filled her with relief. Her palm up and her hand open, she ran her fingers under the dragon’s great head. It's eyes closed and the way the tail shivered, the sound rumbling from the back of its throat reminded her of a cat purring. That night they'd taken flight and when she'd landed hours later, she was too exhilarated and shaken to eat or sleep until the thrilling high had worn off and Tormund had found her passed out outside the Feasting Hall. He'd kindly helped her to her chambers, where she'd kicked off her boots, struggled out of her armour and promptly collapsed again.

Brienne saw the clusters of Wights moving south and others scrambling for access to a cave. She barely had to utter the command and Rhaegal was burning their enemies. The dragons were well familiar with their targets now having had weeks of being directed to burn these cursed creatures.

Clearing a path to the cave, Rhaegal landed and continued to burn anything that dared to enter his radius. The heat he generated made the air hard to breathe and the snow was melting in rivers, causing the rocky earth beneath to be slippery and difficult to navigate. Brienne carefully made her way up to the freshly revealed jagged incline leading up to the mouth.

“Jaime, King Jon,” she called. Ghost appeared, his white coat stained with blood. She dropped to her knees. “Ghost,” she croaked, her voice breaking. No. Her heart grew pained in her chest. He lived he had to live. Then she heard over Rhaegal’s roar and shrieked expulsion of flame, Jon’s voice.

“Here. We are here.”

She stood and ran stumbling through the arched opening and deeper into the darkness. There by a dying fire, she saw King Jon, his back pressed against the wall, a prone form slumped at his feet.

His golden head rested against the black slate of the cave floor. The edges of his hair stained brilliant crimson, illuminated by the dying firelight.

“Jaime!” The cry that tore from her throat was keen and anguished. She dropped bodily and bent over him, gathering him into her arms. The ice lodged in his neck was melting quickly and blood oozed from the wound.

“I would not burn him. The Night King is dead.”

They burned the dead so they would not rise as Wights and give more numbers to the Others army. Brienne shook her head, even as she felt no breath from his lips and no warmth in his skin, she could not accept what Jon was telling her.

Lifting him with strength born from desperation, she staggered for the mouth, keeping him closely pressed to her heart. She felt tears streak over her cheeks and burn in her eyes as the cold from the outside froze the moisture on her skin. Rhaegal had stopped breathing fire, their enemies scorched to ash or fleeing and burning, the cold had returned.

“Please bear us home, my friend,” she said her voice thick with worry and anguish, she wouldn’t be above begging the green dragon at this point. He'd never carried anyone but herself and she was afraid he would fly off without her. 

The dragons were often disagreeable and contrary, they often even snapped and disobeyed their mother. Tyrion seemed pleased to remind them that they were dangerous and wild creatures even if they had been raised by their human mother from birth. They had also known cruelty and abandonment, being chained for years in darkness, fed by unseen hands. Majestic and enthralling, they were also powerful and dangerous and the predatory glint she often caught in their eyes meant she never forgot to use every caution in her approach of any of the dragons.

Thankfully, today wasn't a day he felt like snubbing his human companion or eating her bloodied husband. The dragon lowered his great body and Brienne put Jaime up, climbing on behind her precious bundle. Once again they were seated in a lover's embrace, she tied him to her body using the bindings holding her furs. The position gave her a fleeting memory of years past when they’d been captives of the Goat’s men. Jaime was bloodied, and stank of layers of grime and sweat but his closeness didn’t offend her, if anything she wanted to clutch him tighter. To hold him to her breast, comfort and warm him. His face lolled at her shoulder, more blood spilling over the gap between her furs and down her skin. Threading her arms under his to brace his body for flight, she gripped the thick, rough spikes that rested at the small of his back and patted Rhaegal's scaled skin to convey that she was ready.

Every second of that seemingly endless flight back, she felt dizzy and sick with a tightness in her chest and a rolling coil of tension in her stomach. With each thump of her own heart, she worried he lost more blood with each beat of his own. The clothing stained with his blood clung to her body and she wondered if he had any blood left to lose. She could barely breathe and this time it was not because the air was frosty or thin but because the thought of surviving this unforgiving North without him was a future she refused to consider.

Sam was waiting for them when she arrived. No doubt being told by Bran what had occurred. Tormund took him from her arms after she had unbound the cords holding him to her body. Without those cords to tie the furs to her person, the edges gaped open revealing her blue tunic beneath, stained with sweat and blood and stuck to her frame like a second skin. Her red-headed wildling friend looked concerned after giving her a thorough appraising look. “It is his,” she said brushing aside his concern and urged him to hurry after Sam.

Sam and Gilly worked quickly and silently. Arya built up the fire in the hearth as hot as she could, while Tormund went back out to continue his defense of Winterfell. The battle was nearing an end. With the Night King fallen, and his commanders melting along with their wights under dragon flame, their people could finally fall back and see to their wounded and bury what remained of their burned dead.

It was painstaking moments which seemed like hours later, with his wounds stitched and bandaged, a thin sheet pulled up over his naked and bathed body, that Brienne allowed herself close now that Sam had finished his work.

As Gilly and Sam had bustled around Jaime cutting away his clothing so they could find his wounds quickly, she was aware that her hovering bulk would only be a hinderance. With blind steps, she took a stool in the corner and watched with twisting hands and near unblinking eyes while they worked. She had long shed her cloak and laters, the room hot enough that she sat in her long tunic. Her breeches had been difficult to remove. She had sweat so much in her worry that everything clung and stuck that disrobing had taken effort, the stitching almost giving way under her tugging.

Sansa had bought her another basin of warm water to clean herself and a fresh tunic and small clothes. She thanked her lady but only spared a moment to wash her face and hands, before she went to Jaime’s side. Taking his cold hand in hers, she kissed his fingers and willed him to fight on.

“He's lost too much,” Sam said quietly. “If his heart still beats through the night, he may yet live. But it doesn't look good, my lady.”

Instead of correcting him at the use of the title she refused to accept, Brienne nodded and pressed her face to Jaime's cheek willing her warmth to go into him.

“Live, my love. Don't leave me without your wicked tongue and the sun that is the warmth of your heart. Stay,” she begged, her voice soft and broken.

Throughout the night she sat until her father had returned from his duties and urged her to bathe and change her clothes, to eat something to keep her strength. He promised to sit with his good son until she could see to herself properly.

Lord Selwyn had been shocked upon his arrival to Winterfell. He answered the call for aid and supplies, for how could he refuse when the letters read from his daughter’s own hand. He hadn't heard from her in years, fearing her dead in her mad quest to keep her oath to a dead woman - to find and protect her daughters.

He emptied Evenfall Hall’s stores of food, wrangled every goat, ram, lamb and horse he could spare without leaving his own people to starve and set sail with twenty fighting men and his entire merger fleet for White Harbor. From there they had pressed on and rode hard - with support from House Manderly to defend their herd - for Winterfell to meet with Brienne and the Dragon Queen.

He hadn't been surprised to find his daughter dressed in furs and armor, Valyrian steel in her hand looking every bit the fierce warrior. During the rare quiet when they had met in breaking fast, he'd learned she had fallen in love and wed. Not before the Seven but before a weirwood, the Old gods, only hours before her husband left to go and face certain death beyond the Wall in the far North, the Lands of Always Winter.

After three failed betrothals and his Brienne never taking a liking to any lad but Renly Baratheon, whom it was obvious to everyone but his dear girl that the man didn't fancy women, he feared he'd never be a good father or see a grandchild before the Stranger took him. 

So to find her married to a man she had deemed worthy of her heart and her honour was surprising enough. That the man in question, his only child’s husband, was none other than the infamous, golden, oathbreaking Kingslayer was utterly shocking. He feared that this knight had bewitched his tender hearted Brienne. And after learning of the Queen’s justice it only added more weight to his fears that the Kingslayer was every bit his father’s son, a power hungry, fortune seeking opportunist. He did not air any of his concerns to Brienne for fear of angering and hurting her, but a quiet balm and truth came from a most unexpected source.

He had never heard of Greenseers or Wargs but after seeing and hearing for himself what the lad could do, the Lord of Winterfell, Brandon Stark, he had accepted that such a gift did exist. Bran had assured him that the love between them was real and that Jaime Lannister was a changed man. Changed by the virtue of Brienne herself. 

As he sat at the head of the dying man, Selwyn accepted that he would have to share his precious daughter with this broken unworthy man. His reputation was a stain on anyone who had close association with him, there was no doubt that Stannis’s claim was true. That Cersei’s children had been her brother’s bastards, not her husband's heirs. Thousands had died and the kingdom had been torn apart as they fought to bury that truth. He couldn't imagine, didn't want to grasp what had driven them to commit such acts of dishonour and sin against the gods and vows they had sworn. Cersei to her husband and Jaime to his sworn brothers and his King. Selwyn sighed deeply, all his frustration ebbing out of him with that breath. What was done is done. He willed the man to live, not only for his Brienne’s sake but so he could take the measure of the man himself, and extend a hand of welcome. Tarth would be his new home and his legacy should he decide to do the honorable thing and seek a Father’s blessing. Selwyn smiled thinly at the thought, he looked forward to shaking the man’s one hand of flesh. If he tried to be anything but courteous and true, he'd be twice maimed before the day was done.

::: ::: :::

His eyes felt as though they had been fused closed and his body felt weak and unresponsive. He opened his mouth to speak and felt pain slash through him. His throat, he remembers. He's not dead. Yet possibly this is Seven Hells. He can't imagine a worse punishment, pinned down, unable to see or speak, forever without Brienne. He felt his tongue slip back to his throat and he choked. Tears came unbidden, stinging and weeping from his eyes, he could feel the moisture snake down the sides of face and into his ears. At least he could turn his head, he thought with some relief. The delayed action to his mental command was no small mercy as he managed to breathe through his panic with his face turned. A gasp of surprise startled him.

“Be still, Jaime,” she said her voice warm and joyful.

He couldn't see her, his eyes still would not open but he felt her soothing touch and more wetness leaked from his eyes. He was such a weak fool and he didn't care. He lived and he had returned to her. Or had she come to him? He could hear the crackling of embers and the fanned flames. It was quiet and there was no howl of wind. They weren't in the cave. His fear eased. Wherever here was, he felt no edge of tension in her voice, so they were safe enough.

“Bri--” He tried to speak but his voice failed him as his throat pinched and he felt pain bloom in his neck again making the vision behind his eyelids pulse red.

She hushed him firmly. “You'll open your wounds. Don't speak. Make motions if you must. Your love for wit with words and need to fill silences with endless chatter must be quelled for sometime, I'm afraid. If you value breathing, cease until you are sufficiently healed. Your throat is torn. I beg you, love, don't speak. I'll bring you some broth. Sam says it will numb the pain and aid with the healing.”

He heard her at the hearth shifting something into the fire. At last his eyes opened but his sight was foggy. He wiped his hand over them to take away stickiness and clear his gaze. He watched her bustle around the room. She was in one of his night shirts that only hung to her mid thigh. Her long, creamy beautiful legs were on display and he felt himself stir and harden in an instant. He had been without her touch too long.

A day apart was too long and he had been away for more than a moon. She took the iron pot from the fire and ladled some brown liquid into a clay bowl. She then set the pot aside and carried the bowl toward him. She set a bowl on the table by the bed and with her strong arm, lifted him by the shoulders and propped more pillows behind him to seat him upright. As she busied herself, he wished she would stop just so he could search her eyes and hold her gaze. To look into those endlessly blue, precious depths and sink into them. He wished to watch her pale freckled cheeks blush, a response he never failed to elicit when he openly regarded her for any length of time without speaking. Perhaps this was her tact, knowing he could not, should not speak so to avoid the awkwardness she felt at his longing attention, she would avoid his gaze. Silly wench.

Jaime caught her wrist as she moved to rearrange his furs and pulled her to the bed. She came willingly but carefully. When she was close enough, her expressive face revealing her worry and her blue eyes wide and wet, he pressed kisses to her forehead, the end of her crooked nose and finally her lips. 

Her eyes crinkled at the corners and her lips pinched while her brows furrowed. He stifled a laugh feeling the pain the response immediately triggered.

“Your breath is terrible,” she said, her nose wrinkling in displeasure.

He was torn between wanting to laugh at her look of baffled surprise and wanting sorely to bait her to defensive anger. She was magnificent when she was taken with ire. Trekking through the North there had hardly been an opportunity to bathe. He couldn't recall their last good meal either. How long had he been unconscious; hours, days, he had no way to discern how much time had past. His most recent memory was wordlessly pleading with Jon to finish it. To end their enemy, end this war, protect the ones they loved. All would not be lost, none of it would have been in vain if they succeeded in this one deed. 

His stomach gnawed with a long felt hunger and it was a dull ache below his ribs. His mouth dry as freshly starched sheets and stale now what he took note of it, he wasn't surprised that she had recoiled. She was no field of wildflowers or mint herself however. He wondered when she had left him long enough to rest properly or bath while he had lay unconscious. 

“The broth will help with that,” she said, offering a solution to both his parched throat and tongue. She stretched across and set about settling herself in a better position from where he'd tugged her down to balance the bowl in her lap, and spoon some liquid to his lips.

The tepid broth ran past his dry cracked lips and soothed his tongue. It felt like a balm to his aching throat even if the taste was bitter. He swallowed with difficulty, determined not to spoil her effort to care for him or lose what little fluid he'd managed to drink.

Her lips thinned and her eyes grew pained when she saw his struggle. She waited patiently for him to settle before spooning more. “Take as much as you can. Stop me if the pain becomes unbearable or if you feel ill to your stomach.”

He managed five spoons before he felt a protesting in his gut. He held up his hand to motion and she set the bowl aside.

“My father is here,” she told him, watching his face carefully. “He sat with you when I could not.”

Jaime didn't know what to make of that. What he knew of the Evenstar was only by reputation, things he'd heard from his father and uncle when discussing trade ports or old tourney escapades. Tarth was a Baratheon loyalist, although Brienne had chosen to support the younger son, the slight had obviously been allowed by Lord Selwyn which spoke again of his love for his daughter. He had allowed her to follow her dream of being a Knight and declare for Renly when Stannis had first claim. 

Now Lord Selwyn was here, leagues from Tarth leaving his lands without his leadership in a perilous time. He had no doubt come to aid his daughter. That he hadn't tried to smother his unworthy hide while he slept confused Jaime. He knew he would not be a choice he would allow for a beloved daughter. His eyes stung again. Would he ever have a child he could call his own? His heart still grew pained with the memory of Myrcella’s forgiveness and acceptance of him. Her perfect and true smile, only for him, before she'd died in his arms. At times, when he allowed the darkness to sneak in, he thought that this was his punishment. That they had all been taken before they had truly lived because of his sins. Joffery was a cruel and vicious creature purely of his mother’s design but Myrcella and Tommen had been good natured and so full of promise, the bitterness that clawed at his insides over their deaths threatened to drown him if he thought on them long enough. 

“You live, Jaime. Do not despair.” She told him, reading his self pity and guilt accurately. “You will regain your strength, for we survived this war. The future will be what we choose together.”

Her firm hopefulness, her blue eyes fixed on him, tore him away from his pained memories. He touched his hand and stump to her sides to draw her near. She came willingly. He wanted to laugh at his foolishness. He had wasted so much time clinging to the vain hope that Cersei loved him, needed him and fighting against what he thought was a confusing, fleeting attraction to this ungainly, unattractive oddity of a woman, when he could have been embracing it for the liberating and priceless gift she is. Her beauty was one that would never fade with wear or age. Her charm was her heart, her honour and her warrior spirit. She had much of the woman she had so admired within her and she never noticed it. Lady Catelyn Stark had been fierce in her love for her children. He had believed Cersei the same, but she hadn't been. They weren't pieces of her heart to be cherished and nurtured to flourish. They were possessions and trophies to show her triumphs over the hardships she had believed the fates had forced on her. She had been born his twin, but they had never been equals. What she had really wanted was to be him. To be the heir, to be a man with power and freedom. And when she hadn't been given the rights she felt entitled as first born she had sort them through her twin. Masterfully playing his need for love and to give love, binding him to her with sweet words and her most treacherous weapon, that had proved too tempting for so many. How many he would never know and never wished to uncover. Tyrion telling him of the few he had discovered had nearly ended him in the first.

Brienne might not see it, but Lord Selwyn was like her beloved Lady Catelyn. He loved his warrior daughter beyond reason, he did not try to burden her or confine her, shape her into something she was not even while others would mock or scorn him for his indulgence. She would never be the woman her awful septa tried to force her into becoming with her vision of hard truths and words of duty and obligation. Brienne would always be a honorable person and a firm but fair leader when circumstances required it, but she would never host balls, play courtesies, or wear gowns without great pains. His eyes twinkled at the thought. If she could read his thoughts right now she'd probably strangle him. While the color had been awful, the amount of skin Bolton’s dress had revealed was quite fetching.

Brienne gave him a tiny smirk and put her hand on the tent he'd made in the furs. “I would not risk exerting you so soon with coupling. But I would not leave you so discomforted. I have been curious to try what you seem to enjoy when placing your mouth…” she trailed off as she shifted the furs and lifted the sheet to expose him.

Jaime tried to watch as she took him in hand but when her wide lips swallowed him slowly, the warmth and moist caress of her mouth, coupled with the sight of her blonde head there, those blue eyes silently questioning if she was doing the act right proved too much. He let his head fall back against the headboard and tried not to groan or speak even though every stroke of her tongue caused him see stars and he desperately wished to vocalise his gratitude and pleasure.

Instead he poured all the meager wits he could cling to and expressed his heart with his touch. He carded his fingers lightly through her short hair, touched her strong jaw and caressed her thick neck and shoulders. 

She didn't allow him to draw away to spend himself. She kept him trapped and she swallowed his essence, driving him to the point of madness with her continued ministrations on his softening length. When he stopped quaking, she released him with a gentle kiss and tucked him back under his night shirt. Then eased the covers over his legs and hips again. She wiped her lips and chin with the back of her hand and kissed his cheek. “Rest, love.”

Jaime could only do as she bide. What little strength he had felt upon waking, she had pulled from him with her eager and loving attention. As exhaustion took him, he was at peace. He was in the care of the woman he loved and she was selfless and passionate in the love and protection of those she deemed worthy of her loyalty. His warrior woman.


End file.
